


Inhale, Exhale.

by gunpowder_and_pearls



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, BAMF Lydia, BAMF Stiles, Don’t worry the Major Character death is temporary, Found Family, Hale Pack, Hurt Stiles, Imprisonment, Kate fucked a perfectly good Stiles up, Lots of fucked up shit, Magical Kate Argent, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares, Now he's got anxiety, Plants, Spark Stiles, Stiles just wants friends, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, Torture, instead he has plants, misunderstood stiles, more tags to come, they have feelings too okay, touch starved stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24760921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowder_and_pearls/pseuds/gunpowder_and_pearls
Summary: Stiles is feared across the land as the Argent’s loyal guard dog, mercilessly obliterating anyone who crosses the royal family.He’s also said to stand seven feet tall and to have claws instead of fingertips, so you can’t believe everything you hear.
Comments: 42
Kudos: 204





	1. The Spark and His Guard Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, lmk how I did with comments and kudos!!
> 
> Thank you gaydaractivate04 for beta-ing this! Love you! (kinda)

It started years ago. 

The kingdom was in rebellion, and it was all the royal family of the Argents could do to keep the country from falling into war. 

No one knows quite how he came to be. 

There’s legends that tell of King Gerard summoning a demon from hell and selling his soul for one of his brood, that tell of a child who was birthed from the deepest caves in the Beacon Mountains, that tell of a man with tattoos from neck to toe, who walks among fae and wolves and humans alike, without a trace of fear. 

They tell of a man who can bring fire to his fingertips and create earthquakes beneath his feet that are capable of leveling towns in seconds. 

They tell of when the kingdom’s citizens built themselves an army, there was a single lone figure on the battlefield opposing them.

The stories say that when the army charged they were massacred in seconds. Burned from the inside out. 

The legends are more than stories, they are a warning. A warning of the monster that could come for them in the night. Of a monster who is unstoppable.

The man with glowing eyes and claws of magic, who fights at General Argent’s side.

* * *

Kate Argent’s eyes were narrowed and she was regarding Derek with something close to amusement. “You’re ‘busy’?” 

Derek held back a snarl. “Yes, General. Our assignment is for three years minimum. We are to protect and patrol this town-”

Argent stepped closer and Derek’s nose twitched at the stench of magic that swirled off of her, almost covering up the traces of disgust, of anger and of surprise. “Consider yourself reassigned.”

_Bitch._ The pack lines in his head lit up and Derek silently ordered them to stay quiet. “With all due respect,” he said, eyeing the guards on either side of her. “I am not able to be reassigned by someone of the same or a lower level of superiority than General Chris Argent.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Chris assigned you to this little town?” At his affirming nod, she continued. “I’m sure that he will understand your reassignment, but if anything comes of your not being here I will take full blame.”

There wasn’t much Derek could say at this point. He couldn’t protest for much longer without risking being accused of treason, or at the very least insubordination. The result for either of those actions were the same. Just as the Argents dealt with every other sign of rebellion, those actions were punishable by death. 

He gave a submissive nod and took a step back, keeping his eyes locked on the floor, hands twitching at his sides. “Yes, General Argent. We are at your service.” 

His pack shifted behind him and Derek already knew what they must be itching to do, seeing their alpha bear his neck to someone. He caught a flare of anger, of defensiveness, and then another rustling of clothing. They were undoubtedly baring their necks as well. 

He could feel the smugness radiating off the woman in front of him and grit his teeth, holding back the fury he could feel rising in him. 

The Argents had risen quickly to power half a century ago and by the time a year after their ascension had passed they had half the known supernatural species by the throats, doing their bidding at risk of extinction. 

The wolves had been the first to go, with mysterious attacks and random kills, the thousands of packs that covered the kingdom were reduced to less than a hundred. The Hale pack had held out the longest, but the day they fell would be burned into the history books for years to come. 

Burned into the pages just as his pack had burned in their home. 

Everyone knew what happened. News had gotten around about Kate Argent’s Spark, and when he’d seen his home go up in flames and a single figure on the front lawn, sparks flying from their extended hands, Derek had known. 

The monster who lived in the Argent castle and killed whoever dared fight back was hated by every last species in the kingdom. 

A Spark who murdered children, no matter how supernatural, would not be looked upon with anything but fear and scorn, even by the soldiers who protected the very people that gave the orders to kill. 

  
  


Derek had done the only thing he could when, years after the pack bonds in his mind snapped, months after he’d finally built himself a new pack, one full of misfits and loners who somehow clicked, the Argent castle’s guards came with a demand for able bodied people to enlist. 

Packs got priority for being kept together, and maybe it was the Argents figuring out that a wolf separated from its pack was more vicious and deadly than it is with others to anchor them, or maybe it’s just to keep the packs obedient under threat of their betas being killed, but Derek was grateful for it. 

Derek’s pack had been under the Argents’ command for the past five years, nine years after his first pack was slaughtered and six years after Derek had begun to build a new one, and they had hated every last one of them. 

Derek had pulled Isaac from an abusive home, ripped his father’s throat out, and offered him the bite. The teenager hadn’t hesitated. Scott was a different story entirely. He’d been suffocating, having gone on a run for medicinal herbs that his master had asked for, and as an apprentice he couldn’t protest. Scott had been on the edge of death when Derek bit him. He would forever feel guilty for not asking for permission first, even though Scott had reassured him countless times that he wouldn’t have done anything but accepted immediately if he’d had the chance. 

Erica and Boyd were a package deal, with Erica’s debilitating illness slowly killing her, the bite was the only option for her to be saved. Her only condition was that Boyd be bitten too. Derek couldn’t refuse. Not with how much he needed Boyd to join the pack, with his steadiness acting as an anchor for the rest when they got too angry. 

His pack was one of people who would’ve never come together if it wasn’t for extenuating circumstances, and none of them would have it any other way. 

“Good,” Kate says, a smirk on her lips. “You and your pack will follow my party, as you are to be guarding a person of interest at the castle. Do you understand?”

She asked the question as if she thought being a wolf lowered your intelligence to where you couldn’t comprehend simple sentences. For all he knew, she genuinely believed that. “Yes, General. I understand.

He couldn’t very well say no, she would likely charge him for rebellion. Him and his pack would be executed within hours. 

When Argent and her unit of guards left the city, his pack followed behind. They knew where they were heading, everyone knew of the great castle that was said to still be stained red from the bloods that were shed during the largest uprising, and with the forced march they were traveling at, it would take them only a week or so to reach it. 

Derek couldn’t do anything but dread their arrival, the feeling increasing with each step he took.

* * *

If you asked anyone what working under Kate Argent’s command was like, they’d say it was an honor, a privilege, that they wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world. That was a load of _bullshit_.

In all the years of working for her, of following her every command, he’d never been grateful for the standing he’d been given.

He could name half a dozen guards off the top of his head who’d kill for the spacious rooms he’d been given, the gold-threaded rugs that covered cold stone floors, the running water that was courtesy of Kate Argent herself, and the pure _wealth_ his clothes were made of. 

But if that gold has been pulled from the backs of slaves who mined it, if the running water is a constant guarantee of his cooperation for fear of losing it, if those clothes were just reminders that he would likely never have the chance to return to a peaceful farm life, then Stiles doesn’t want them. 

If those spacious rooms are just the bars on a birdcage so gilded that others forget Stiles doesn’t have the key to get out, then he doesn’t want them. 

He never will. 

The worst of it all is the isolation. 

He’d never been very good at being quiet, and having no one to speak to couldn’t dissuade him. He’d find himself gesturing along to a conversation he was having, taking both sides in an argument, pacing circles in his rooms as he talked through problems that had been bothering him, and would pause, reality setting in that it was just him and his thoughts, bouncing ideas back and forth. 

That he would never get real and lengthy human interaction again, likely until the day he died. 

Lydia would come by each week but could only stay a minute or two, as she was sent to bring him his weekly food. Their friendship had been a slow one, built on jabs tossed back and forth, interspersed with Stiles’ random compliments and Lydia’s occasional curious questions. 

It had taken him years to figure out that his attraction to Lydia was based on the fact that she treated him like a living thing.   
  


That had been another punch in the gut, because how fucked up was that? What Stiles thought was his first real crush was merely the warmth directed at someone for thinking of him as more than an object. 

If he ever got out of here, he was going to need decades, _at least_ , to recover. 

He could only leave if he found his dad. There was no way he was abandoning his last bit of family to Kate Argent’s _mercy_. 

The look on his dad’s face when she had come for them still appeared in his nightmares, as well as the last moments of his mom’s life. 

Stiles hadn’t known what he was and when guards atop horses came charging into their little town, not a single thought had crossed his mind about what they were coming for. 

It was one of his biggest regrets. 

It was easy to see, looking back on it, how unusual a child he’d been. Every town had long become diverse, full of fae and weres and magic users alike, but no one quite like him. Druids were proficient in potions, mages could call wind and fire to their palms, witches could curse and jinx anyone within range if they wanted to, but Stiles had known he wasn’t one of them.

He’d thought, naively, that what both him and his mother was was just a rare type of magic user, perhaps that they were just unusually powerful mages or that fae blood might run through their veins. 

Kate had come to the Stilinski house, her and her guards horses trampling the crops both Stiles and his dad had spent all spring and summer tending to, and taken him by force. 

It was only by threat of killing his dad that he went without a struggle. 

He’d tried, at first, to fight back, because his parents had taught him to never listen to bullies, and Kate Argent was nothing but a bully, and it hadn’t gone well.

Kate had taken one look at his struggling form, all eleven years of his magical practice and strength he’d gained from farmwork fighting to get away, and had waved a shimmering hand, palm coated in gossamer strands of sickly gray magic. 

The strands had attached themselves to his mother. 

She’d aged right before their eyes, dark brown hair fading too quickly into gray, her eyes becoming glassy and blank, form withering away into a husk. When it was over and both remaining Stilinskis had frozen, horrified in the face of Kate’s magic, Stiles had been dragged out the door. 

The promise of harm befalling either of them kept them from attempting to stop her in those last life changing seconds.

Instead, those seconds were spent hauling Stiles into a carriage and knocking him out, a damp rag pressed to his mouth and nose sending him into a deep sleep before the carriage could begin to move.

Kate had figured out fairly quickly how to control his magic. She was not a particularly powerful witch, but by layering enchantments on top of enchantments she could get the desired effect of a spell. He found out later that the magic she used to kill his mother had come from an enchanted ring someone had created for Kate. 

She created manacles of a type, disguised in ornate beaded bracelets that had been slipped onto his wrists and never came off. 

Unable to undo the clasp due to hundreds upon hundreds of the same spell, repeated over and over again, one enchantment on each bead, Stiles was effectively restrained. A matching collar joined the set, this time with the enchantments of control woven into a beautiful amulet of lapis. 

With the three objects on his person he could do nothing to resist her commands. He’d experimented with them at first, determined to find his time limit of resistance and increase it, slowly but surely. 

The pain that hesitation brought was not something he could get used to, even after years of trying. 

He was forced into being given tattoos. For any magic user, tattoos can be used to show how much power they have, to track how much of their magic they’ve expended, or to display what kind of magic they had. It was taboo to force a magic user into receiving tattoos or to choose their tattoos for them.

They were meant to show a spellcaster’s true self, their soul inked onto their skin. 

Stiles’ would be beautiful if he didn’t hate them so much. Smoky clouds of deep navy blue covered him, beginning on the soles of his feet and winding their way up his neck, stopping only a few inches below his jaw. The clouds would slowly fade, beginning at his fingers and toes and slowly moving in, as he used up his stores of energy. When he’d reached the bottom of that seemingly endless well of magic that sat inside him, all of his tattoos would be faded to the point that they would seem to have never existed, the only reminder that he even was a spellcaster being the single swirl of a cloud that rested between his shoulder blades. 

No matter how much magical energy he expended, that swirl remained a solid dark blue. It was his tie between his lifeforce and his powers, in a way. It was the center of his power, and if he used up so much magic that it disappeared, then his lifeforce would have expended all of its energy on the spells he was casting and he would die.

It never got that close, as it was very easy to keep track of how much magic he had left. As a spellcaster uses up their well of energy and their tattoos begin to fade, they begin to feel the effects of getting close to magical burnout. Using up their energy brings a bone deep ache that only grows as the spellcaster approaches that permanent tattoo. By the time a spellcaster has used up all their energy they would feel like they had broken every last bone in their body. 

His mother, with her thousands of tattooed flowers decorating her, had said that it was a way for the gods who had gifted them magic to remind them that they were only mortals in the end. That even though they’d been given an extra little spark in their soul, they were still nothing compared to those who created them.

Each spellcaster chose the pattern they would decorate themselves with after years of contemplation, and when the time came they would enlist the help of a warlock, as they were the ones who could gift other spellcasters their tattoos.

A spellcaster may be able to choose the pattern but the amount of ink that would cover them was predetermined by the amount of magic that resided inside them.

For Kate to drug him and force his tattoos onto him was a crime that would lead to execution within seconds among most communities. 

The same rules that had been prominent for centuries, respected by all species across the kingdom, did not seem to apply to him. Stiles was just a weapon, and any moral code that might prevent someone from tattooing an underage, non-consenting spellcaster had been evidently ignored in favor of either the amount of money Kate undoubtedly paid them or the threats she leveled against the tattoo artist’s loved ones.

Any type of magic that draws on your energy comes with more of a price than exhaustion. In most spellcasters’ cases, it would leave physical reminders of those who magic was used to hurt. If a mage were to try to burn a tree, they might end up with a second or third degree burn covering the palm of their hand from which the first sparks flew, with the severity of the burn depending on the well of power a spellcaster contains. 

If an averagely powerful mage were to try to burn someone from the inside out, both them and their victim would be hurt by the offensive magic. The victim would die and the mage would likely receive third degree full body burns, although the size would depend on how close to a burnout of magical energy they were after the attack. 

If a mage were to try to electrocute someone, they would likely end up being electrocuted themselves, although it would be to a much milder degree than their victim. 

This repercussion of harmful magic upon the user occurs among all spellcasters, although with witches and warlocks it tends to be to a much lesser effect, as their spells don’t tend to be as physically harmful as the spells of a mage.   
  
If a witch were to make their victim hallucinate falling off a cliff, they would likely have an intense feeling of vertigo, paired with a flash of fear and perhaps a bit of pain for when the victim feels themself hit the ground.

Stiles had dealt with many such repercussions, he had felt his flesh fall from its bones, had watched blackened burns creep their way up his arms, had choked on the very same water that he sent down a victim’s throat, but with the level of healing magic he had he was able to save himself from the usually permanent effects of using harmful magic. 

Healing and growth magic was another thing entirely, as the few times Stiles had been allowed to use it at a substantial level, though only on himself, Kate, or one of her soldiers, it had given him almost superhuman levels of resilience in matters of pain and the effects of harmful magic, lasting a day or so before it faded away.

As he grew more powerful and more resistant, even to the manacles, although he could never hold out for more than a few seconds, she began to weave spells into his clothes. Each new shirt he received had dozens of spells running along the threads it was made of. Kate’s enchantments alone became too weak to control him, so she began to enlist others to help her. Witches from across the kingdom were summoned to the castle and they came, willingly or not. 

His rugs were replaced by ones that had wards spelled into their designs, preventing Stiles from taking a single step outside his rooms without Kate’s permission. 

Carvings lined the walls of his quarters, with the only exception being his workroom. The designs prevented him from taking any physical action against Kate, letting her visit him whenever she pleased as he was unable to do more than glare in her direction. 

None of the thousands of enchantments that brushed his skin each day restrained his magic. They instead took away his free will, forcing him to obey orders within seconds if he did not want to end up sprawled on the floor, forced there by pain and punishment that the spells gave him. Even without resistment, headaches and nausea began to plague him daily, the pure _pressure_ of hundreds upon thousands of spells forcing themselves onto him and his magic causing them. If he had depleted his magic, in one method or another, the spells would have less resistance and would harm him more, as they did not recognize his magic as anything but a threat. 

Magic without any purpose but to restrain can begin to act up, fighting against those it restrains in a calculating way. If those it is restraining grow weak, it grows all the more powerful as there is less fighting against the force of the magic. 

The largest factor to his years of cooperation was the capture of his father. Days after he’d been taken she’d described to him in detail what would happen to his dad if he resisted. 

He hadn’t believed her at first, the childish belief that his parents were all powerful prevailing past the fear he had of the strangers who took him. She’d brought him to the Argent castle’s dungeons and showed him the prison’s newest member. 

His dad had been sprawled on a pile of hay, shirt in one corner and back covered in lash marks. He’d been too pale to be healthy, with dried blood covering his torso and the waistband of his pants, and Stiles had been _terrified._

Every few years he was brought back down to the dungeons, brought to see the cell that his dad had been living in since Stiles was eleven, to be sure he continued to cooperate. Kate made certain that his dad was unconscious or asleep each time they went to ‘visit’ him, to make sure that they wouldn’t have even a second to plan an escape. 

And so Stiles hadn’t escaped, even with occasional slim opportunities throughout the years, a moment where a guard was careless and didn’t check for butter knives among his food delivery or a soldier he was traveling with for another one of Kate’s orders fell into too deep a sleep, but the thought of leaving his last living family member to eventually die in the bowels of a castle was too much for him to even attempt. 

He instead did his best to save the few he could. If he was sent to burn a village to the ground for being unable to pay taxes to the crown, he’d make sure that there was a bit of warning for people to escape before the blaze became too deadly. A whiff of smoke could do a lot of help if the right person caught a trace of it on the wind. 

If he was ordered to send a townhouse crumbling to its foundations, with the owners inside, he’d do his best to cause walls and floors to collapse in a way that the residents would be safe in pockets of space, safe from both the threat of a roof crashing down atop them and the guards who would surely be poking through the wreckage in a few hours time. Luckily, they all cared far too much for their own lives to search for the lost ones of a few measly little citizens. 

When Kate herself came with him on a mission there was nothing he could do to spare his victims. Whatever she ordered, no matter how convoluted, had to be done. 

When Kate decided she was going to pay him a visit, usually just before one such mission, she would give him a week’s warning. It gave him enough time to rush his way through any soon-to-be-due commissioned armour he’d been enchanting in his workroom, and as they were always meant for either Kate or her personal guards, she liked when they were completed early. 

She could do the spellwork herself but it would take her far too long and use far too much of her energy, and so she would pass on such demands to Stiles to create and hopefully please her with. It wasn’t that he was rewarded when she was happy with his work, it was just that the better mood she was in, the less missions he was sent on, and the less people who died at his hands. 

One such visit was happening today, and if the time the messenger had stuttered out in the face of the famed Spark who was “undyingly loyal” to Kate Argent was right, then he had an hour to go. 

One more hour and then he’d be facing his greatest enemy again. And again, just as every other time she’d visited him, he’d be forced to listen as she listed off the week’s offenders and their various punishments, finishing it off with a condescending smile and a timetable for when he was expected to be ready to depart. 

Being in his workroom was always refreshing, no matter the purpose. There was less pressure from wards there, as Kate knew the side effects from so many restraints could affect his work. 

The pieces of armor she wanted enchanted this time were for herself, with shoulder plates molding into howling wolves, intricate carvings of spells printed into the metal. 

She’d told him that she wanted nothing less than perfection, as always, and that she expected the work done within the month. He technically had five days left. 

The spell she wanted cast on the armour was not an extremely difficult one, but she did not know the exact way to cast it and so Stiles was left to figure it out himself. He was quite sure he’d gotten it, had finally figured out the intents that had to go into it, paired with the hand gestures that were his signature movements for spell casting, all he had to do now was actually use magic. 

He moved the plates to rest in front of him and cleared off the bits of scrap metal and side projects that usually cluttered his desk, and began to pull magic to his palms, letting the deep purple ripple over his fingertips. 

Stiles took a deep breath, because if he fucked this one up then it was going to _hurt._ Best case scenario, it goes perfectly and smoothly. Worst case scenario, the spell on his hands doesn’t like the enchantments already embedded in the metal and explodes in his face. 

Hopefully it wouldn’t be the second possibility, because Stiles really liked his nose. 

He let a glimmer of his magic collect on his fingertips, drawing slowly from the ball of warmth in his chest that was his Spark. Careful to not push too fast, Stiles gave a little gesture, sweeping his hand out in front of him and pointing at the armour before letting the spell drift over it, settling slowly and seeping into the metal. 

Stiles paused for a moment, eyes locked on the newly enchanted shoulder piece, because he’d _really_ rather get it blown up in his face and be able to cast wards to protect the rest of his projects then turn his back and have it destroy months of work 

The armour sparked once, as if it was testing how strong his magic was, before returning to its normal color of burnished silver. His shoulders slumped and he turned to the matching piece, this time pulling his magic to the surface quicker than before, sure now of what he needed to do. 

Of course, with his luck, second time is _not_ the charm. 

The purple mist hovered over the armour for a moment and then flared bright red, seconds from exploding across the room. Stiles threw wards up as quickly as he could, falling as safely as he could into his well of magic. 

BOOM. 

_All the Gods above._ Stiles coughed, waving a hand through the air in an attempt to clear some of the smoke away. His magic responded, white sparks appearing at his fingertips for a split second before they sucked the smoke from the room, leaving a wind blown and soot covered Stiles, as well as half a dozen untouched projects in its wake. 

The armour was just as pristine as it had been before, and when Stiles reached out a tendril of power he felt a spell settling into the grooves of the metal. _All that, and the goddamned spell still worked?_ It was like the world was out to get him or something. 

He carefully stacked the two plates on top of each other and put them on a corner of his desk before turning to the nearest project. It was a travel bag for one of the royal physicians, and it was _beautiful_. 

He’d just rested his now golden glowing palms on the leather of the bag when the doors to his chambers were flung open, hitting the walls with an echoing thud and sending him jumping so high in his chair that it was a wonder he didn’t fall off. 

As it was, he teetered dangerously on the edge of his seat, arms flailing for a moment in an effort to stop himself from toppling. By the time he’d caught his balance it had been far too long after the doors opened for Kate to be alone.

Odds are she brought her little niece to tag along. 

The girl had looked at him like he was less than dirt on the bottom of her shoe the first and only time he met her, and he’d given up on making another ally very quickly. 

Not that he had much hope for an Argent, but a prisoner could dream. 

Stiles scrambled out of his chair as quickly as he could, snatching the finished armour plates off his work table as he went. He barely managed to pull the door open before he crashed into it and then hissed when his toe caught on the edge of it. _Gods damned piece of junk._ The doors in his chambers seemed to be charmed so that he couldn’t pull them closed or fling them open faster than a walking speed. It wasn’t like he ever needed to close a door to _contain_ an _explosion_ or anything. 

Kate was waiting in the middle of his sitting room, arms crossed and the _same_ godsdamned _amused_ smile that was always plastered onto her face when she came to ‘visit’ him. And he was right, she hadn’t come in alone as she usually did. 

Five other people were surveying the room behind her. They all looked around the same age, maybe a few years older than Stiles himself. 

“General,” he said, giving a deep bow in her direction. Technically he only had to nod respectfully to her but it was always good to suck up to her before a mission. It meant less monitoring. 

“Stiles,” she purred, a wicked grin replacing the smile she’d been wearing for the past few moments. “It’s come to my attention that you are severely...underprotected. Vulnerable in a way that magic cannot protect you from.”

_Vulnerable…?_

He was only fucking vulnerable because she’d bascially _locked up_ any defensive magic he had. 

He held back the scoff that threatened to escape out of his throat and instead gestured to the group behind her. He ignored the way that they tensed when his attention turned to them. “So...you’ve recruited humans to protect me?”

The mischievous look on her face grew. “Humans? Stiles, I thought you were better trained than this.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow but made sure to soften the expression enough that she wouldn’t decide he was disrespecting her. He let invisible bits of his magic seep from him, gently brushing up against the strangers and almost flinched back at the howls his spell heard.

_Werewolves._

“You brought...werewolves to protect me?” He asked weakly.

Kate’s voice was sickly sweet when she responded. “Well, Stiles, with their enhanced senses they’ll be able to sense an attacker coming from quite a farther distance than you can. Aren’t I so thoughtful?”

He could hear the warning in his tone and quickly nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you, General Argent.” Stiles was careful to not let the sarcasm seep into his thanks. “I have completed your armour enchantments if you’d like to see the finished product.”

Both Kate’s and the wolves’ posture changed, a sliver of eagerness slipping into hers and the wolves seeming to slip into even more defensive stances. They obviously didn’t want to be there. Maybe if Kate realized neither group wanted the other there, she’d just let the pack go on their merry way and leave Stiles alone for a little bit longer. 

He held out the package he’d been clutching to his chest for the entire interaction and presented it to her. It wasn’t so much of a package as it was the two shoulder plates wrapped in a shining blue cloth of the Argents’ colors. 

Kate pulled it from his hands, a greedy glint in her eyes. Unwrapping it took a matter of seconds and he was so busy watching her reaction that he almost missed the barely-there disgusted scoff from one of the wolves. 

His eyes darted from face to face but with each of them having the same level of hidden anger and disrespect, it was impossible to guess who’d made the noise. 

Kate hadn’t even noticed that anything had happened. She was busy wrapping her newly enchanted armour back up, and when she was done she glanced back at the pack. “You are to remain in his chambers until I tell you otherwise. You are to not enter his workspace but otherwise you are not restricted from any of the rooms.” She turned back to Stiles. “And thank you, again, for your wonderful work.”

_She’s laying it on thick this time._

She took a few sweeping steps towards him and before he could back away, she pulled him into a hug. “You have _soot_ on your face,” she whispered, enchantments brushing against his ear as she spelled her voice to go unheard by the wolves. “The next time you greet me looking so uncivilized your father will get a surprise visit. Do you understand me?”

She waited until he breathed out a yes before she stepped away, hands gripping his upper arms in a gesture that would look comforting to an outsider’s view. “Now, I really must go. Do give the Hale Pack your best, will you?”

Kate didn’t wait for him to respond before stalking from his rooms and the doors slammed shut behind her with an air of finality. 

_The Hale Pack? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

He remembered the mission he’d been sent on to kill the first Hale Pack. He’d made sure to let two of the children escape, unable to manage more. He’d burned the pack house to the ground and had cried through the whole attack. 

One of the escapees must’ve become Alpha and formed a new pack. 

He turned back to the pack and scanned them, watching them as they stood stone faced in front of him. Unconsciously or not, they were all angled slightly towards the man who stood at the front. And _gods_ , was he a knockout. 

Stubble paired with the tousled black hair, add the green eyes and thick eyebrows to the equation and _wow._

He was definitely the Alpha. 

The Alpha of the _Hale Pack_.

_Fuck._


	2. Enough Words for Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets to know his guards.   
> Or rather, he talks to a group of flesh and blood statues.

The Spark- _ Stiles, she called him _ , stood frozen for a moment, eyes locked on where Kate had last been, before he turned to face the rest of them. His gaze flickered over the pack and Derek felt the prickling discomfort that came with being eyed by someone so close to the Argents rippling down his pack lines. 

Maybe it was just the knowledge that  _ Stiles _ was a murderer. 

It had been a surprise when they entered the room. He’d expected the Argent’s most loyal weapon- _ because that’s exactly what he was _ -to have more lavish decorations, but was instead greeted with minimalist carpets that were woven in intricate and unfamiliar designs, with similar carvings decorating the walls. 

Derek had heard of spellcasters using magic to amplify their own and wondered just how powerful he was, surrounded with so many amplifiers at once. 

The Spark had been much younger than they had been led to think, but he couldn’t help to not care. If a thirteen or so year old was loyal enough to pledge himself to the Argents then it wasn’t much of a stretch to expect him to follow them in their quest to eradicate themselves of those who rebelled. 

The spellcaster had proven that quite quickly. 

Derek had still been surprised at the  _ amount  _ of tattoos that covered him. Everyone knew that the tattoos on a spellcaster were sacred, the design chosen by the one who would proudly wear their ink but that the amount was pre-determined by the power the gods had given them. 

The dark clouds that decorated almost all the skin he could see was an eyeopener. The tattoos began at his jawline and traveled downwards, likely covering the rest of the Spark’s body, leaving only his face untouched. 

_ This  _ was the weapon that the Argents’ had. 

You could try to deny that the Spark was young, inexperienced, but one look in his eyes had told Derek otherwise. 

There was a shadow there, matching a scent that surrounded him, but Derek couldn’t place it.  _ Probably insanity.  _ His gaze was almost hollow, with an icy glare that filled them whenever Kate hadn’t been looking. He was perfectly still while speaking to the General, and had remained so when gifting her her latest protection. The movement in his body though, when he spun to face them, was calculated. 

The way that he looked at the wolves was almost predatory in its sharpness. 

The Spark’s gaze finally settled on Derek and he wished he knew what the spellcaster was seeing. He could be sending out spells at Derek  _ right now, _ and he’d have no idea because the Spark’s chambers  _ reeked  _ of magic and it was impossible to discern when new spells were being cast. 

Stiles stuck out his hand. “Since we’re gonna be stuck together for a while, I figure we should all get to know each other.” He smiled slightly. The movement was shaky, as if he’d planned the tiny show of weakness. Derek didn’t trust the smile on his face, not when the eyes didn’t match. 

There was no way that Stiles expected them to interact with him past what they were required to do. Derek eyed the extended hand with distaste and turned back to his pack. A jerk of his head conveyed what he wanted them to do and they quickly spread out, each taking up a spot in the room by a wall that allowed them to have an unblocked view of Stiles at all times. 

Derek took his place across the door and ignored the sour scent of  _ hurt _ wafting off of the spellcaster.  _ He thought we were going to become friends?  _ Did the Spark understand what losing a pack felt like? When a pack member dies, the others feel their pain just as strongly as them. And Derek had felt almost his entire pack burn. The Spark thought that shaking hands would make all the difference?

_ Psychopath.  _

Stiles hesitated, looking at the wolves with a confused expression on his face. “So...no names then?”

Derek sent a quick look to his pack, making sure that they understood not to acknowledge him. They stood, backs straight and eyes focused on an invisible horizon as Stiles spun in a circle, noticing the way each and every one of them avoided his gaze, looking over his shoulder or to the left of his head when he came to face them. 

The Spark let out a huff and rolled his eyes. “Fine. That’s...fine.” The muted scent that surrounded him grew and Derek snarled inwardly as he once again failed to recognize it. Instead he kept his other senses on high alert, monitoring the Spark as he walked to the next room- _ kitchen _ , his nose supplied-and began to rummage through various cupboards and drawers. 

“What do you guys eat?” Stiles pivoted on his heels and turned towards the pack, hands fisted on his hips. “If I’m going to have guests for a while, then I’d at least like to be hospitable and provide you with food.”

Derek nearly growled. Did he not realise what was going on? He was a  _ murderer _ , and although they were ordered to protect him, they did  _ not  _ have to interact with him. 

The Spark smirked slightly, acceptance in the jut of his chin and the raise of his eyebrow. “I don’t get a whole bunch of visitors, you know. I  _ usually _ just talk to myself.” He shrugged and unease prickled in the back of Derek’s head, Isaac’s pack line lighting up. “But now I’ve got you guys!” The cheer in his voice sounded ridiculously forced. “So I’ll just talk to you instead. You don’t have to talk back though, I’ve got enough words in my head for everyone.”

He turned back to the array of food he’d pulled from his kitchen and Derek took the opportunity to survey his pack. 

Isaac’s eyebrows were crinkled together and he was obviously uncomfortable with even being in the same room as someone with so much magic. Scott looked unaffected, and Erica was too busy making eyes at Boyd in the precious few seconds they had to give much of a shit about the man in the other room, although Derek knew she was tracking his movements. Boyd was as solid as ever, calm in the lines of his shoulders, and Derek felt the tension in him drop a few notches. 

His pack was safe. 

_ Safe as they could be. _

That was all that mattered. 

* * *

It wasn’t like Stiles  _ wanted  _ them there  _ either _ . But if he was gonna be stuck with five other people in his chambers for an undetermined amount of time, he sure as hell was going to do his  _ very best  _ to get a word or seven out of each of them.

By the way it was going so far, Stiles was hoping for three words from each wolf and one from the Alpha. 

Hopefully before he died. 

Finally satisfied with the large array of bread, cheese and various sliced meats that he’d piled on his plate- _ energy food  _ was what his mom called their snacks-he spun back to his sitting room, and careful made his way to the large couch that took up most of one wall, making sure to avoid any dangling leaves from the vine plants he had growing around the room. 

It had taken a clever design of various shelves running around the room at different levels but he’d managed to make it so that the walls of his living room were draped in plants of all kinds, their vines tangling with each other as they ran past, white flowers blooming among red and thorned stems twisting with almost fuzzy light green ones. 

Being surrounded by so many sparks of life helped calm his magic down. 

At least, that’s what he told himself. 

_ No _ , it was  _ not  _ so that he would feel a little less alone, that was absolutely  _ ridiculous. _ Who would use plants as substitutes for people? Crazy people, that’s who. 

Plopping down on his couch was easier said than done, especially with the massive platter in his hands but he managed due to practice. All it took was a twist of his hips and a quick swing of his right leg and he found himself sprawled across the velvety piece of furniture, his plate sitting on his lap. 

Lydia had laughed at him the first time he’d done it, as he’d lost about half his food to the floor due to a rather ungraceful flailing that resulted from his attempt at swinging one leg into position.

She still brought it up and he was waiting for the perfect moment to prove to her that he was much more graceful and coordinated now. 

The wolves hadn’t moved but he’d felt their eyes tracking him around the kitchen as he’d gotten his snack together.  _ Fuck, is the action of me  _ eating  _ instantly suspicious?  _ It wasn’t like he lashed out with magic at them when they didn’t respond. He took the development like a  _ champ. _

He knew his reputation of a cold-blooded child killer, but hadn’t everyone realised by now that looks could be deceiving? That  _ maybe  _ he didn’t want his arms to be covered in blood up to the elbows?

Did they not realise that an powerful spellcaster would’ve immediately sensed that two Hales were missing? 

Kate hadn’t been happy when Alpha Hale had resurfaced and had taken her anger out on Stiles. 

He had been devastated that one of the Hales must’ve ended up not making it. Her punishment seemed just, if only because he should’ve tried harder to get more of them out. 

“So,” he said, decidedly  _ not _ looking at Alpha Hale. “What do you all do around here for fun?”

Predictably, there was no response forthcoming.

Stiles sighed.  _ I just want company,  _ a voice in the back of his head whined. He ignored that voice. It was a stupid and useless voice. “I obviously don’t have an empty room that’s big enough for all of you to sleep in but I  _ do  _ have an unused room that was meant for servants.” He glanced at the rest of the wolves. “I can spruce it up a bit if that’ll work?”

The wolves didn’t move an inch, the only sign that they were alive being the rise and fall of their shoulders. “Oh-kay. I’ll just take that as a yes.” Stiles crammed a cracker laden with cheese into his mouth, taking care not to choke as he swallowed. “Is this what we’re going to be doing as long as you guys are my guards? Just me, talking to a couple of walls?”

There was no reaction and Stiles let out a groan, tipping his head back for a moment as he leaned farther into the couch. “ _ Gods above _ .” It’s not like he was expecting them to get into debates on various uses of magic or something. He just wanted a little more than the one-sided conversations he’d been having with himself- _ and his plants _ \- for the past several years. 

It wasn’t like he got visitors all the time.

He’d still take a pack of mute wolves over Kate Argent any day. 

_ Hel,  _ he just wanted someone to  _ talk to _ . Was that too much to ask?

Apparently. 

He stood quickly and set the platter down on the little table he’d moved to be in front of the couch, brushing the crumbs from his shirt. “Guess I’ll just get started on your room, then.”

It was quick work to transform the servant quarters into a more liveable space. To conjure up a piece of new furniture, let alone five new beds took more energy than Stiles was allowed. Rearranging materials was a different thing altogether. 

The stacked wooden beds that allowed very little light from the single window to its occupants were easily pulled apart and built into beds that were lower to the ground and allowed a larger space between the bottom and the top bunk. 

There were minimalistic tapestries hanging on the walls that Stiles, after some internal debate and one-sided conversation with the wolves in the nearby room, rewove into depictions of heavily wooded forests under starlit and sun kissed skies. 

When he was done and the flowing white magic faded from his palms, he stepped back to allow the piercing gazes of the wolves that had rested on his neck to see the newly decorated room. 

“What...what do you think?” Stiles ignored the dryness of his mouth that always followed large uses of magic in his rooms and pulled on a smile, pride a bright ball in his chest. He turned to face them and found each and every one of their gazes locked on a point somewhere over his left shoulder, not a single wolf glancing at the door next to him. Although he could’ve  _ sworn  _ that a few of them had been peering at their quarters when he wasn’t looking. 

He’d take the victory. 

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, keeping  _ most _ of the snark out of his voice. It’s not like he just used up almost a fourth of the magic he’s able to touch without the wards attacking him. Not at all. 

He walked back into his sitting room and snagged a few crackers from his plate. “Feel free to help yourselves.” He gestured to the piled food. “It’s not poisoned or anything.” Stiles tried for a smile. “You’d be able to hear if I was lying to you about that anyway.”

He wasn’t surprised when the wolves continued their staring contests with the wall. 

Stiles waited for a moment longer and then briskly clapped his hands together, plastering a grin to his face. “Well, I’m just going to...work on a few more projects I have going...so, talk to you later.” He ended the sentence like it was a question and tried not to cringe at how stupid he ended up sounding. 

He ducked back into his workshop, taking care to close the door completely. The wolves wouldn’t be able to hear him through the walls. He should know, he watched Kate and a few recruited witches ward them. 

Everything in the room could explode and there would still be nothing escaping to the rest of his chambers. 

_ That feature became useful very quickly.  _

It was almost cathartic, using his healing magic. The physician’s purse was an easy project, with each burst of magic that he sent through the fabric adding a shine to the threads that were threaded through the seams. 

It wasn’t often that Stiles was commissioned to use healing magic. It was different then the kind he used on himself or his plants when needed. The spell that the physician had asked for was used to enhance their healing magic. Of course, Stiles wasn’t allowed to actually  _ increase  _ someone’s powers, but with this enchantment any spelled object that was placed in this bag would have their potency amplified in minutes, leading to a more efficient way of treating those who need help. 

It felt  _ good _ , not only using that section of his magic that normally went untouched, but also knowing that what he was using it for was in the assistance of others, with absolutely no possibility of using it for harm.

Of course,  _ Kate  _ could probably think of a few ways. 

He blinked his way through the first wave of the headache that was rapidly approaching and concentrated on the bag beneath his hands. 

It wasn’t a very complex spell, but enhancements always took more out of Stiles than other kinds of spellwork. 

The headache swelled and Stiles swore under his breath, because  _ come on.  _ Couldn’t he get just  _ one day _ where his restraints- _ courtesy of Kate _ -didn’t affect him? 

There wasn’t much he could do to make it go away, except to pause in his enchanting and take a break.  _ Unfortunately _ , the whole reason why he went to his workroom was to avoid those outside of it. And while there were less wards in his workroom, he knew that he wouldn’t be able finish another project if a migraine was already working its way up from the back of his neck to his forehead. 

He hissed under his breath to himself in frustration and stood, steadying his chair with one hand when it began to wobble from his less-than graceful movement. 

Stiles marched from the room with as much dignity as possible, once again avoiding even  _ looking  _ in Alpha Hale’s direction as he quickly deposited his used platter into the basin of his sink and turned back to head to his bedroom. 

He could feel the gazes burning into his back as he moved, following him from room to room. Only when he’d managed to make it to his room with minimal tripping and swearing, did he relax. 

The walls and closed door did little to muffle him from wolf ears but it gave him comfort to know that they couldn’t see him anymore.

_ Gods _ , if they hated him  _ now,  _ what would they be like after a mission? Would they even deign to sneer in his direction or would they just glare, like the guards outside his rooms? Would they notice the shaking in his hands and the tremble of his mouth that the guards missed every time he came back from another one of Kate’s conquests or would they think even less of him? 

Was that even possible, to think less of him?

He dreaded the next time she’d send for him for an execution. She’d likely make him bring the Hale pack and he’d give anything for them to not witness that. 

The executions were always trumped up charges and were  _ always  _ families or elderly who refused to or were unable to pay the grain and animal product taxes. 

They happened nearly once a month. 

Stiles muffled a sigh into the plump shape of his pillow and collapsed completely onto his bed, not stopping to remove his shoes. He didn’t like the bed anyway.

It was  _ too big _ , took up almost half of his bedroom and was completely decked out in the Argent house colors. 

Stiles had tried to burn it once. 

The wards made his hands blister and those hated sheets remained untouched. 

He’d sworn until his throat was bloody and his mouth was dry, and then had curled up in a corner of the room, barely pausing to heal his hands before he burst into tears. 

That had been years ago. 

He still despised the bed. 

One day, he’d get to choose the blankets that covered his straw stuffed mattress, because after all this time the goosefeather bed was still too soft. One day, he’d buy himself a new pillow, one as close to the pillow that had sat at the head of his bed at home as he could get.

One day.

He fell asleep still wishing. 


	3. Of Nightmares, Chocolate and Magic

Derek loved his pack. 

He’d give anything to take the pain of some of their pasts away from them, if only so that they can all sleep peacefully through the night. 

But memory removal is a procedure that had long since been outlawed, ever since an Alpha had used the technique to turn her Betas into perfect servants, stripping them of everything that made them who they were, leaving only the scraps of basic skills with none of the memories attached. 

It was a tool of savages, used only to inflict pain. But if Derek knew how to use it correctly, how the Gods had meant for it to be used, he would.

Because it would mean that Isaac would be dreaming of hunting in a forest or running with his pack right now, not flinching against the wall every few seconds as whimpers slipped past his gritted teeth. 

The pack had left their posts, turning to help Isaac instead of keeping watch. Derek would be damned to Hel if he prioritized the Spark over his own packmate. 

They’d been trying to talk him out of whatever nightmare he was trapped in for the past ten minutes, Scott’s voice a mellow sound as he attempted to comfort his fellow wolf. 

Isaac wasn’t reacting to any of them, curling in tighter on himself each time one of their voices sounded through the room. His Beta’s nails were digging into his arm where he clutched it to his chest, as if one of them were about to wrench him up by his wrists. 

“Isaac,” Derek murmured, weaving a little bit of Alpha command into his name. “We’re here. You’re safe.” He took a step closer to the crumpled form of his friend. “You can wake up now.”

He crouched down slowly, staying an arms length from his terrified Beta and spoke again. “Isaac. Open your eyes.” The Alpha in his voice was forceful but not unstoppable. It wouldn’t move Isaac’s muscles against his will, nor would it punish him if he didn’t follow the order. 

Isaac’s eyes snapped open.

For a moment, it seemed like it had worked. 

Isaac’s eyes were glazed but alert, sleep still lining his alarmed expression. Derek let out a sigh of relief and the rest of his pack relaxed around him. Then Isaac threw his head back and screamed. 

It was a sound of pure fear, and as the sound drew out the intensity of it rose, Isaac’s feet scrabbling against the floor in an attempt to push himself further into the corner and farther from danger. 

The cry dropped into broken mumbling, pleads and begs scattered between ragged sobs. “Oh Gods, please no. Please, I’m sorry!” Isaac jerked back from whoever he saw approaching him, slamming his head against the wall with a dull thud. 

“Derek, what do you want us to do?” Erica’s brows were creased, worry and fear lancing its way up the packlines. 

“I-I don’t…”

He’d never felt so helpless.

“...please, please stop. I’m sorry  _ I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorryI’MSORRY...!” _

Isaac’s voice rose to a shriek, his fingers now curled in his hair. The pure panic that Derek could smell from his Beta was making him twitchy, his instincts telling him to face the threat, to tear apart whatever was scaring his member so badly. 

This wasn’t a threat he could fight. 

Derek clenched his jaw and backed away from Isaac, guilt and relief warring in him when his Beta’s form untensed slightly, although the pleas didn’t pause for a moment.

“We’re going to have to wait it out.”

“ _ What? _ ” The anger in Scott’s voice sent Isaac flinching back again and the Beta lowered his voice before asking again. “Derek, we  _ can’t  _ do that.  _ Look  _ at him!” 

Derek growled, the deep rumble sending Scott back a few steps. “You don’t think I know what that’ll do to him? Do you think I  _ want  _ to leave him trapped in whatever slice of Hel he’s seeing?”

Scott snarled back at his Alpha, eyes flashing. “We can’t just leave him like that!”

“Please! I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. Please, _stop!”_

Isaac let out another drawn out scream, nails clawing at a rapidly healing scalp. 

Derek was so wrapped up in protecting Isaac, so surrounded by the scent of his Beta’s worst nightmare, that he wasn’t even aware of the man’s approach until his pack was growling at the new presence in the room. 

The Alpha whipped around, a snarl already curling his lips. The Spark took three quick steps back, his hands raised in the universal gesture of peace. “Look, I’m just here to help.” Stiles’ voice was strong, determination and concern running through it. “He’s having a flashback and when he comes out of it, he’ll have a panic attack.”

Derek didn’t respond, only narrowed his eyes. How the hell would Stiles know what to do? He’s not about to let a  _ stranger  _ get close to his Beta. 

“I-“ The Spark hesitated before speaking again. “I used to get panic attacks too.” 

His heartbeat was steady. 

He was their last option. 

_ Damn it all to Hel.  _

Derek stepped back. 

“Derek!” Erica hissed. “What are you doing?”

He flashed his eyes in response to her. “What I have to do.”

The Spark crossed the distance between him and the terrified Beta, settling onto the floor a few feet away. A quick gesture of his hands had Derek stepping forward again, claws at the ready, only to stop as golden light wreathed the spellcaster’s fingers. 

Isaac didn’t flinch back from the light.

If anything, he almost moved towards it.

“When I was little…” The Spark began, “I lived in a little town on the outskirts of this Kingdom.” Another flick of his fingers had images forming from the magic he held cupped in his hands. “My mother, father and I had a farm.” A beautiful woman standing side by side with a tall man appeared, and even at the minuscule size the flower tattoos that covered the woman were clear as day. 

“We mainly had apple trees and they were the talk of the town.” The steady cadence of Stiles’ voice was reaching Isaac, who was very slowly uncurling himself. The rest of his pack let themselves settle a little as the Spark kept talking, Scott sinking to the floor a few arms lengths away from Isaac. 

The Beta seemed to have surfaced from his nightmare, but was still shaking slightly. Derek resisted the urge to slide down the wall next to him and just pull his Beta to him, running his fingers through his hair like he used to with Cora when she was upset. 

Isaac didn’t need that right now.

“My mom would make apple pies for special occasions, like fairs or holidays. The celebration for Solien, the god of the sun, was my favorite. She’d go all out, using cinnamon and vanilla, spices that she’d saved up for months to buy. But my favorite part,” Stiles paused and leaned slightly closer to Isaac, as if the wolf was engrossed in his story. Derek stopped himself from bristling. “Was that she’d buy _ chocolate _ .”

The underlying scent that wove through the sharp smell of the Spark grew with each word. “And then she’d bake it into little cakes and make just enough for the three of us.” There was a twinkle in his eye that was growing as he spoke. “She’d always pretend that there wasn’t enough for Dad and he’d have to bribe her with a bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked on his way back from work. She’d smile and laugh and sh-she’d say, ‘I guess there was enough after all’.”

The Spark continued his story, moving on to talking about his mother teaching him medicine, using his magic to show each individual herb. Isaac’s whimpers had died off somewhere around the second plant. 

Stiles had just begun to recite the properties of raspberry leaf when Isaac sat up completely. The spellcaster’s voice died off and he sat back on his heels. “Hey, you with me buddy?” 

Isaac gave a tiny nod, his hands still curled in his lap and his legs still protecting his stomach. 

“Alright, that’s good.” The Spark smiled, rising to his feet, and there was nothing but kindness filling his face. “Make sure not to stand up too quickly, you’ll get a head rush.”

The enchanter only paused a moment longer to give Derek a nod before slipping back into his room. 

“...Isaac?” Scott’s voice was shaking as he eyed his fellow Beta. “Are you…”

_ -okay? _

Scott didn’t finish his sentence, the answer too obvious for him to ask it. 

Boyd let out a comforting rumble, meant to soothe his packmates. “We’re all going to be okay. Come on,” he said, extending a hand to Isaac. “Let’s get you up.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate in grabbing Boyd’s offered hand, letting himself get pulled to his feet and steadying himself against the wall when he swayed. Derek raised a brow in silent question. 

“I’m good,” Isaac answered, a tiny grin making its way across his lips. The shadows had cleared from his eyes but lingered in the lines of his face. “I’ll be okay.”

It was hours later when the topic crossed his mind again. “Have you all noticed that scent that surrounds the Spark?” At the affirming grunts that echoed across the room he continued. “I can’t recognize it. Do any of you know what it could be?”

It was silent for a few minutes, with confusion coming from all but Isaac. 

“Derek,” he said, something unidentifiable in his voice. “That was loneliness. What always surrounds him? He’s  _ so  _ lonely.”

_ What? _

* * *

The following morning was awkward. 

More awkward than it had been before, which was really saying something in Stiles’ opinion. He knew he was probably radiating anxiety in the wolves’ direction but he couldn’t  _ help it.  _ He’d gone into their territory, and it was  _ their  _ territory because it was certainly not Stiles’. 

He’d gone into their territory unannounced and proceeded to get  _ far  _ too close with a Beta in distress. 

If they’d been anywhere but the Argent castle, Alpha Hale would’ve had the full support of the law behind him if he decided to remove Stiles’ head from his shoulders. 

How the Hel was he so stupid?

It took a full minute of pacing in front of his door before he could force himself to open it. 

He’d barely slept last night, with images of the terrified wolf begging someone to stop burned into his eyelids. When he finally fell asleep, and  _ thank Somnem  _ he didn’t have a nightmare, he only managed a few hours before his eyes refused to cooperate and wouldn’t stay closed. 

Leaving his room quietly was a challenge but he managed it, hoping to not wake up any sleeping wolves. 

Almost the entire pack was awake and standing when he made it to the living room, with only the dark haired Beta curled up on the floor, his head resting on his Alpha’s boots. By his content expression, they likely made for good pillows. 

“...Good morning?” Stiles winced at the uncertainty in his voice and eyed the wolves. They didn’t so much as blink. Disappointment fell like a stone into his stomach and Stiles sighed. “I guess we’re back to this, huh?” 

He wasn’t sure why he’d been so hopeful. Maybe it was the fact that he’d  _ heard  _ the Alpha talk in front of him, or that he’d been allowed to approach his terrified Beta, but he’d thought that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ they’d finally seen that he wasn’t everything they thought he was. 

Of course, he was wrong. 

There was one single person in the entire Kingdom who knew what Stiles really thought about his ‘job’ and it was only because she’d had to pull him out of a panic attack he’d suffered while she’d been delivering his food. 

It had been a few years since he’d gotten to see his dad and he wasn’t sure if he was looking forward to his next visit. 

It would be confirmation that his dad was still alive but at the same time he’d have to be injured or drugged in some way so that they wouldn’t be able to talk to each other. 

Stiles wasn’t even sure what he’d say at this point. 

Sorry, maybe?

Sorry for being so weak, for being so easy to manipulate that he’d managed to let himself be turned into the most feared weapon in the Kingdom?

Sorry for being such a failure of a son that he couldn’t even break him out of the prison that was a few floors away from his own rooms?

The cup he’d pulled from the cupboard slipped from his hands and he swore, watching as if in slow motion as it crashed to the floor. The shatter of porcelain knocked Stiles out of his reverie and he backpedaled frantically to avoid the tiny shards that skittered towards his feet, nevermind that he could heal any cut in  _ seconds _ . 

A quick wave of his hand pieced the cup back together, sealing the cracks and leaving nothing to show that it had been destroyed moments ago. 

“Fuck.” Stiles let out a ragged sigh and rested his head on his arms, leaning against the counter. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he said again, forcing the word past gritted teeth. 

Could he not go one day without fucking up?

Maybe he should just go back to bed and forget that this day even started. It would probably be easier than this. 

He abandoned the mug in the kitchen and stalked to his workshop, determined to not come out until his hands stopped shaking. 

He wasn’t successful. 

Stiles managed to remain in his workshop for over two hours, powering through assignment after assignment, until his head was pounding and his fingers were cramping from his repetitive movements. 

It’s not like it’s  _ his  _ fault that everyone wants the same goddamn enchantments!

He wasn’t quite sure what day of the week it was but he was hoping Lydia would come by soon. Having someone to talk to would be nice. 

Someone, somewhere, must’ve heard his wish and granted it. He was halfway through his walk of shame back to his bedroom when a knock sounded on the main doors. 

They swung open a moment later and a red headed girl slipped through the entrance, a covered tray balanced on one hip. Even dressed in servant garb, she moved like she owned every room she walked into. 

“Lydia!” Stiles’ face lit up, arms swinging out from his sides in an unconscious want for a hug. God, he’d missed her. “Love of my life, apple of my eye! You’ve finally come to see me.”

“Stiles,” she responded, tone as curt and unimpressed as it was every other time she was sent to his chambers. She swept into his kitchen and set the tray down onto the counter before turning back to him, her hands on her hips. “I see you’ve got some new friends.”

“Aw.” Stiles settled onto a nearby chair, grinning at the familiarity of their bantering. “Don’t be like that. No one could ever replace you!” 

She smiled back at him. “Shut up, Stilinski.” The wolves shifted nervously and Lydia’s eyes darted to them. “New guard dogs?”

He really didn’t want to see Lydia get scary. “Kate assigned them to me.” He shrugged and pulled up his customary grin but his eyes didn’t match. “They’re a real silent bunch.”

Lydia raised one perfect eyebrow and Stiles shrunk back into his chair. “They’re ignoring you?”

“I...wouldn’t say that. They...they have a  _ very  _ good reason to not want to be in the same room as me -no need to get protective, Lyds- and so I completely understand and accept their silence.” Her eyebrow inched higher. “It’s fine.”

She remained unconvinced. “Stiles, if she’s going to up your level of monitoring…”

It remained unspoken who  _ she  _ was. 

Stiles spluttered, waving a wild hand at the wolf pack. “They hate her more than anyone else in this castle! They’re not going to report back to her in detail.” It was true, really. Alpha Hale could give him a run for his money in levels of hatred subtly directed at the General. 

“Stiles.” Lydia crossed the room to stand in front of him and he straightened in his seat. At his movements the wolves around him stiffened. He told himself that it was in response to his quick movements, not the fact that they were gearing up to protect Lydia. “I am  _ not  _ going to leave you without human contact if you’ve got five people who are perfectly capable at speaking stuck in your chambers, yet  _ refusing  _ to speak with you.”

_ No.  _ “Do  _ not  _ sic Jackson on me.”

She frowned. He wasn’t buying it. “What’s wrong with Jackson?”

“You know _exactly_ what’s wrong with Jackson!” He glared at her. “The last time you couldn’t come see me and passed the job onto him, he spent the entire ten minutes threatening to _rip_ my head from my _shoulders_ if I made a move on you!”

Lydia looked unmoved, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He sighed. “Look, Lyds. I’m fine. I’ve got my plants. I’ve got you every few weeks. I’ve survived this long, I can keep going.”

She huffed out a breath and nodded. “Fine. But when I come back, if they still haven’t spoken to you, I get to say whatever I want.” He quickly consented and she continued. “To  _ all  _ of you.” She scanned the room and seemed satisfied with what she saw. 

She gave one more nod to herself and stepped closer to Stiles, wrapping her arms around him. He hesitated, as he did every time, before reciprocating, gently rested his hands on her back. Stiles tucked his face into the juncture between her neck and shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut. 

They stayed like that for a moment, Stiles sucking in one shuddering breath after another until he could make himself pull back. “Thanks.”

Lydia smiled slightly at him and then straightened. “Pull yourself together, Stilinski.” She had a teasing lilt in her voice. “You’ve got shit to do.”

He laughed, sniffling slightly. “Yeah, yeah.” 

She patted him on the shoulder almost awkwardly and turned back to the doors. She was about halfway there when she abruptly stopped and looked back. “See you in a few weeks?”

Stiles nodded, seeing the goodbye for what it was. They did it every time. “See you in a few weeks.”

And then she was gone, taking his only possibility of conversation with her. The doors slammed shut with an air of finality. 

He hoped he was imagining it.


	4. Struggling to Breath (Dust Coated Lungs)

Stiles hadn’t been expecting Kate this soon after her last visit. As always, there was the sharp sound of his guards outside snapping to attention and the increased pulsing of his wards against his magic that announced her arrival. 

Stiles stiffened, rising from where he’d been settled on his couch, leaving the plant he’d been busy coaxing back to life discarded on the nearby table. The wolves echoed his movements, their shoulders straightening and chins lifting as Kate drew closer. 

The main doors opened slowly, the heavy oak proving to be almost too heavy for the guards stationed outside. 

Kate hated when her entrances were ruined. They’d be gone within the week. 

The general swept into the room, an easy smile on her lips as she looked at Stiles. The spellcaster straightened his spine.  _ Smiling was never good.  _

“I’ve got a mission for you.” 

_ Definitely not good _ .

He raised an eyebrow and tucked his hands behind his back. She didn’t like it when he showed how scared he was of her. “Their charges?”

“Treason.” She took a few steps closer. “As is the crime that sends my Spark after them. I trust you don’t have a problem with it?”

He shook his head rapidly and tried not to back away. He’d never been more aware of the eyes on him as the Hale pack watched their interaction with curious gazes. “Never, General. I serve only you.”

Her smile widened. “Good. See to it that you remember that.” He nodded and she continued. “You serve  _ me _ .”

Stiles swallowed roughly and his hands twitched at his sides in an aborted movement. He pinned his elbows to his sides, determined to not show how much she was affecting him. From the glint in her eyes, he knew he hadn’t succeeded. 

“Yes, General.” The waver in his voice was not entirely due to his fear. 

He knew, logically, that he was trapped like a fly in honey. He didn’t have a way out, didn’t have any options other than to sink deeper into the hell that was now his life. But having hope, even just the tiny scraps of it that he held to his chest, was what kept him going. 

The hope kept him alive, kept him able to  _ some day  _ rescue his dad. 

Kate nodded in satisfaction. “There is a little town on the edge of my Kingdom. They are refusing to pay their grain taxes, and in turn, are betraying the crown. No survivors, do you understand?”

_ Fuck _ . “Yes, General. I understand.” 

He avoided glancing at the Hale pack as he ducked into his bedroom to prepare. Kate liked to be more than a little dramatic, and nothing was better than fueling the flames that named him a monster. The paint he smeared on his face in elaborate swirls served to accent his tattoos, mimicking their elegant design while providing just a little bit more fear over the level of power he had. 

Stiles didn’t look in the mirror when he was done. He’d seen what he looked like with his war paint too many times. The space around his eyes was set in shadow, his cheekbones made to look razor sharp, and his jaw painted in a way that he looked other-worldly. 

Even Kate’s circle of guards could barely stand to look at him when he was like this. 

He draped himself in jewelry, the gems and bits of bone dangling from their chains enchanted to protect him and contain him. 

Gifts from his captor. 

He pretended like the necklaces didn’t feel like collars. 

When he was done, and he’d donned every last piece of his battle armor, he emerged from his room. He could almost feel the apprehension radiating from the wolves that filled the room. He watched them take in his makeup, the intricately woven shirt and trousers he was wearing, their dark fabric edged with embroidery in the Argent house colors, the enchanted necklaces that hung from his neck. 

Stiles knew he wasn't imagining the fear that appeared in their eyes. 

Not many people who got a close look at him in his warpaint survived the next few minutes. No doubt they were all thinking about that. Something ached in his chest at that thought. 

For all his efforts, all of his attempts at making them comfortable, at showing them how much closer to human than the stories said he was, they still ended up seeing what kind of monster he really was. 

He didn’t blame them for fearing him, of course. The things that he’d done, the blood that still coated his hands, no matter how many times he scrubbed at them, were a testament of just how ruthless of a weapon he’d been made into. 

Stiles didn’t say another word as he was led from the room, the guards from the hallway surrounding both him and Kate, leaving the Hale pack behind.   
  


* * *

As always, Stiles was quickly brought to the main courtyard and guided to a saddled horse. The retinue of guards that had followed him from his rooms mounted the remaining animals.

But this time, Kate did the same. 

“...General?” Stiles asked, doing his best to keep the apprehension from his voice. If she was coming, then he had little to no chance to spare anyone. 

She raised an eyebrow slightly, a miniscule smirk making its way onto her face. “Yes, Spark?” She said his species like a title. 

“I-” He cut himself off before he could offend her, and tried again. The guards around them acted as if they weren’t listening, most studiously making unnecessary adjustments to their saddlebags or otherwise. “You are to be accompanying me on this mission?”

Kate’s smirk grew. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

Stiles quickly shook his head, hands unconsciously tightening on his horse’s reins. “Of course not, General. We are honored to be in your presence.” The respect he’d forced into his tone scraped his throat on its way out.

What he wouldn’t give to charge her with his horse, and leave her trapped underneath her steed, one leg pinned and broken. He kept that image in his mind as they began their long ride away from the castle, towards yet another village that was soon to be destroyed. 

It didn’t help as much as he wished it did.

It took only a few hours to reach their destination, and Stiles did his best to fill the time he had left before his inevitable attack trying to imagine ways to save a few citizens and keep his actions secret from Kate. 

Unless she remained with their company and did not accompany him into the town as she usually did, he would be unable to lessen the coming slaughter. 

He sent a silent prayer to the gods that he hoped were listening, although they had never responded before, and begged them to show the little town mercy. 

_ Please _ . He glanced up to the heavens, keeping his movements as inconspicuous as possible.  _ Please, let me save one. Just one. They do not deserve the storm that is coming.  _

There was no responding rush of wind, no slight rumble in the ground to tell Stiles that his creators had finally heard him. Kate did not fall suddenly from her horse, clutching at her throat, nor did Stiles find himself struck down by an unnatural lightning bolt. 

There was no reaction, no sign to tell him that his prayers had been answered, and so he continued, pleading with his uncaring gods to hesitate, for once, at ignoring the large loss of life that was soon to come. 

They arrived at their destination too soon. 

Stiles dismounted, his actions quickly copied by the rest of the retinue, save Kate. She remained on her horse and surveyed the community in front of them. Although they were still far from the little town, it was clear that it’s streets were bustling with life. 

Faint calls from shop stalls carried in the winds, the chatter of the marketplace interspersed with bright peels of children’s laughter. Shoppers darted to and fro, desperate to get their errands over with, while others wandered slowly, content to absorb the sunshine that fell on their faces.

It was quite obviously a busy day for the town, and Stiles knew that that was why she had picked now to act on her punishment. She wanted the largest number possible of people in one place so that there would be an even smaller risk of anyone escaping. 

She wanted there to be a massacre. 

And Stiles was going to give one to her.

He cast a quick glamor over himself that left him looking like any other tired farmhand off early from work, and slipped easily into the well worn slump that many such workers carried. No one looked twice at him as he began to wind his way to the town square, smoothly maneuvering his way around people so that their shoulders would not brush his. 

He couldn’t risk a fellow magic user sensing his power. It would blow his cover completely.

He knew that Kate and his escort were likely watching from the hill he’d left them on, with a clear view of the town and at the same time, sheltered from anyone who happened to glance up from the road by a well placed copse of trees. 

The knot in his throat grew as he slowly wandered his way to his goal. Anyone who happened to look in his direction tossed him a small smile or an acknowledging nod, stepping neatly out of his way as they approached him.

_ They didn’t deserve to die.  _

Stiles found himself in the center of the town’s square far too quickly. People hurried around him, baskets or bags of groceries tucked under arms, children in hand. 

He let out a shuddering breath. 

Pulled another one in. 

Eyed the people around him.

And let the glamor drop.

There was a moment of stillness, where eyes snapped to the blur of movement near them and didn’t register what was being seen. 

The screaming began. 

A woman was frozen only a few feet away, eyes locked on the spellcaster. Stiles made eye contact with her.  _ I’m sorry _ , he mouthed. 

And then he raised one glowing hand, strands of sickly red magic wrapped around his fingers and palm. 

_ Inhale-  _

He slammed his hand to the ground in one smooth movement, sending the energy rippling out, burrowing into earth and stone, wiggling its way through cracks in buildings’ foundations. The dirt packed streets began to tremble. 

- _ exhale. _

His magic flared, every shred of it that was buried inside the structures suddenly growing, forcing its way out and tearing the buildings apart with it. Stiles found himself untouched by the destruction, wooden stalls and stone buildings toppling onto the fleeing townspeople, the earth beneath their feet crumbling as they tried to run. 

He felt, rather than saw, life after life after life get snuffed out. 

The town was a map of energy in his mind, glowing dots marking the places where people stood. They were winking out by the dozens. 

Stiles stretched his magic out further, the destruction moving with it. It spread, and then hesitated. A mother and her two children, one bundled in her arms, were running as fast as they could for the surrounding forest. 

He didn’t let the wave of destruction reach them. 

The family slipped into the trees and Stiles brought the rest of the town crashing onto the surviving civilians’ heads. 

There is a moment, after every great catastrophe, where the air is still. Where the world seems frozen for a moment, every last living creature on it mourning for those who were lost in the disaster. 

The dust that drifted in the wind was the only movement for miles. 

Stiles dragged in a shuddering breath, his throat tight.  _ Three.  _ He’d saved  _ three  _ people, out of the thousands who had lived here. He swallowed. His mouth tasted like dust and blood and sorrow. 

He turned on his heels and began to make his way back to Kate. He ignored the soldiers who were picking their way through the ruins, looking for survivors, and kept his head down. He was drained, but not completely. He still had half of his tattoos full. 

He moved steadily, steps not faltering for a second, but his hands shook at his sides. 

Thousands of lives to add to the weight on his soul. The weight would drag him down eventually, down the steps that led to Hel, to face his judgement. He prayed it would be sooner rather than later. Any more weight added and his knees would buckle. 

Kate was smiling at him as he approached her. “Well done, Spark. That was  _ truly  _ a masterpiece to watch.” 

He gave a short bow, teeth clenched.  _ Your death would be a masterpiece.  _ “As always, General, it was an honor to provide assistance in protecting the Kingdom.” 

The woman gave a small chuckle and nodded in agreement. “Successful as usual.” She turned in her seat, making eye contact with the head of the guards. “Regroup,” she ordered, and her smile grew. “We are heading back to celebrate.”  
  


* * *

  
It had been hours since the Spark had been summoned from his rooms, to slaughter one town or another over a falsified crime against the crown. The pack had been restless the moment the doors swung shut behind Kate and her spellcaster, unable to stop fidgeting. The bitter smell of anxiety filled the air. 

Stiles was likely murdering innocents right now, and instead of attempting to stop him, the wolves were trapped in these rooms alone, until he returned. 

Erica had inched her way across the room to Boyd and was currently maneuvering herself so that she was draped across his lap, one of his hands gently petting her hair. Scott had somehow made his way to Isaac and had a hesitant arm over the taller beta’s shoulders. 

Derek wished they were back on a harmless assignment, far away from the prying eyes of both Kate and her Spark, where his pack could have relationships and not have to worry about their love being used against them. 

Isaac suddenly stiffened and within seconds his betas were back in their positions, shoulders set and eyes fixed in the walls in front of them. 

Kate was back. 

And with her,  _ Stiles. _

The general swept into the room as soon as the doors opened, a smirk resting on her lips. The Spark was much slower in his arrival. 

He stumbled in a few moments after her, head down and tattoos faded. Almost every inch of him was coated in dust and Derek couldn’t help but inhale the scent that surrounded his.  _ Death.  _ The spellcaster smelled of death and panic. 

“Well,” said Kate, one hand resting on her hip. “I had a lovely time with you. Wouldn’t you agree, Spark?”

Stiles jolted as if he’d been shocked when she spoke, and only just managed to nod in response. “Yes, General.” His voice was hollow. “I agree.”

“Good.” She glanced around the room, gaze pausing on each werewolf. “I’ll leave you to your post-assignment rest, shall I?” She patted Stiles gently on the shoulder while she turned towards the exit, as if congratulating him. “Today has been quite a busy day for you.”

The woman was gone as quickly as she came, guards closing the doors behind her. 

It was silent, the only sound being Stiles’ ragged breathing. Then a wild sound tore its way out of his throat and he crumpled in on himself, shoulders hunching and arms wrapping around himself, as he sunk to the floor. 

The pack was frozen, unable to do anything but watch as the spellcaster fell apart. Concern and panic rippled down the pack lines. Derek could feel his claws slipping in and out of his fingertips as he struggled to control his shift. 

He’d never been so affected by another person’s emotions, but the scent of pure panic that was currently filling the room was impossible to ignore. 

He crossed the floor quickly, stopping to kneel beside Stiles. The Spark was clutching at his own wrists, fingernails clawing and scoring red lines into his skin as he struggled to breathe. 

Derek hesitated, but as Stiles’ trembling grew, his resolve strengthened. “Stiles.” He paused, seeing no reaction, then tried again more forcefully. “ _ Stiles. _ You need to breathe.”

The rest of his pack shifted behind him, Scott edging a few steps closer, Isaac not too far behind him. Derek gently pulled one of the spellcaster’s hands away from his arm and pressed it to his own chest.

“Can you feel that?” He took a deep breath, shoulders rising with the movement, and blew it out slowly. “Follow my breathing. Deep breath in,” He paused again to demonstrate, eyes locked on the Spark’s shaking form. “Long breath out.” 

There was a moment of silence, the wolves unconsciously holding their breath as they waited for any sign that Stiles could hear Derek. Then the Spark gave a slight nod, pressing his hand harder into the Alpha’s chest, as if telling him to continue his breathing. 

Minutes passed like this, the wolf and the spellcaster sharing breaths as Stiles struggled to get his lungs to cooperate. When the Spark’s heartbeat was no longer thundering in his chest, Derek withdrew his hand and shifted back, but remained kneeling, his weight settled on his heels. He wanted to remain within arms reach of the spellcaster in case he decided to pass out. He’d seen it happen plenty of times before after Isaac had spiraled into a panic or clawed his way out of a nightmare. He didn’t want to have to listen to the Spark’s head hitting the floor. 

Finally, Stiles raised his head, although he kept his eyes trained on the floor. “I...I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t what he had been expecting. “Why.” It wasn’t a question. 

The Spark visibly swallowed, as if steeling himself to explain. “I just came back from one of my missions and...and you had to help me.” Stiles fidgeted slightly, anxiety permeating the air around him. “I know that you know what happens on my missions, and so I understand that no one should have to comfort me after I have just done a horrible thing.”

It was silent for a moment, and then Scott broke the silence.

“Did you want to?” He asked. 

Stiles jerked slightly, gaze darting up for a moment in surprise at both Scott’s voice and question, before he quickly lowered it again. “Did I want to what?”

Derek interrupted, words harsh at the implication behind his beta’s question. “Did you want to kill all those people?” 

The spellcaster’s breathing hitched and a shudder ran through him. “N-No.” 

Isaac shifted from behind Scott, taking a few steps closer. “Then why do you do it? Why do you obey her?”

“I-I...She has my dad.”

There was a collective stutter in all their breathing. The Spark became a mass murderer for  _ his father? _

“She has your dad.” Erica’s voice was deadpan, her head cocked in a way that clearly conveyed her disbelief. “You kill thousands...for  _ one  _ man.”

Stiles shook his head desperately. It did nothing to quell the anger rising in Derek. 

“No. If I could kill her, I would. But I  _ can’t.  _ I literally, physically,  _ can’t. _ ” His heartbeat didn’t change. 

Derek leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean,  _ you can’t _ .”

The Spark swung out an arm to gesture to his walls and floors, the movement slightly shaky as the scent of his panic slowly faded from the air. “You see those carvings? Those patterns woven into my rugs? You think they’re enhancers, don’t you?” At the pack’s confirmations, he continued. “They restrain my magic. I literally can’t attack her, the wardings that surround me will stop any spells I try to throw at her before it leaves my fingertips.”

“But…” Scott spoke quietly. “What does that have to do with your dad?”

Stiles huffed, the flush in his cheeks now more due to his frustration then the lack of oxygen. “What do you  _ think  _ that has to do with my dad? You think that if I could break him out, I wouldn’t? You think that if there weren’t restrictions on me, I would be doing the exact same thing? If I could, I’d get him out and leave. I just can’t abandon the last living bit of family I have.” They didn’t respond, instead watching him silently. 

“Look, I  _ can’t  _ kill her. If I resist her orders for too long, my restrictors begin attacking me in retaliation. If I disobey her, she hurts my dad and then slaughters whoever she tried to send me after in a  _ much  _ more gruesome way.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “ _ Trust me _ , I wouldn’t be here if I could.” His last few words were almost whispered, they were so quiet. 

Derek nodded minutely, then rose to his feet, extending a hand to the spellcaster still on the floor. Stiles eyed the appendage for a moment before grabbing hold and allowing the wolf to haul him to his feet. 

The Spark kept his eyes on the Alpha, distrust and confusion lingering in his whiskey eyes. Derek felt a pang in his chest at that but ignored it. It’s not as if he could’ve known the circumstances of Stiles’ containment. 

He gave a sharp nod to the other man. “Thank you for telling us.” 

The spellcaster returned the gesture, his gaze flitting quickly over the rest of the pack. He took a few quick steps to the side and then darted to his bedroom, the door closing with barely a click.

Derek looked at the door for a moment longer, his pack silent behind him. He turned back towards them, a mixture of sadness and protectiveness dancing over his face. “He’s ours now.”

“...Derek?” 

The Alpha looked at each of his betas in turn. “He’s ours now, understand? We don’t know everything about him, but he’s ours now. We’ll learn.”

Scott smiled and nodded in agreement, the gesture quickly copied by the rest of his pack. “Yes, Alpha.”


	5. I’m Too Dark (I Don’t Want To Block The Light)

Stiles had never slept worse. Usually after a panic attack he was able to crash, every inch of him sore from how hard he tensed while trying to breathe. But this time was different. 

The residue dread that came from his attack on the town, as well as the spiral of fear that followed quickly after he helped a family of three escape, made it impossible for him to close his eyes. 

He couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to the terrified mother and her two children, over and over again. With Kate overseeing his mission, it was much harder to help anyone get away. He’d tried to cover their tracks with magic, erasing any trails they could’ve left, but it was done sloppily, most of his power concentrated on sending those thousands of souls to their deaths. 

Stiles sent a silent prayer upward, hoping Fortuas, the god of luck, caught his wish on a wind and decided to answer it. Although with how merciful they’d been to him lately, he didn’t hope for much.

The god seemed to ignore every last wish and dream and prayer Stiles sent their way but he hoped, as he did each time, for leniency for this family. 

Stiles rolled over in his bed, blankets twisting around his calves as he flipped. He was trying his best to ignore the conversation he’d had with the pack only a few walls away. To be open was hard now. 

He used to tell his parents everything, from information about the worms that lived underneath their crops to his first crush on the baker’s son. Now, with barely anyone to trust, it was almost impossible to even think about certain things. 

When he was a kid, he had a thing where if he didn’t think about something, it couldn’t happen. It couldn’t be real. If he didn’t think about bugs attacking their crops, it didn’t happen. If he didn’t think about the bandits and raids that were becoming more and more frequent, then they weren’t real. 

If he didn’t think about that town, and the subsequent panic attack, he didn’t think about opening up to the wolves. 

And then it didn’t happen. 

He borrowed himself further into the bed, hitching his blanket up over his shoulders, and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe when he woke up, this would all have never happened.   
  


* * *

“...Mom?”

The room around him was much smaller than he remembered, but growing up did that. His mother turned from the fireplace, straightening up from the pot she had been stirring. 

“Stiles!”

She took three quick steps towards hima nd he couldn’t help but do the same. 

The world began and ended in her arms. She held him close, her body almost wrapping around him, as if she could protect him from the world just by shielding him from the gods’ sight. 

He drew in a hitching breath and tucked his face into the crook between her neck and her shoulder, just like he used to when he was younger. He had the fleeting thought that he hadn’t done that for far too long of a time, but he quickly pushed it away. 

A mouth was pressed against the crown of Stiles’ head, his mother dropping a kiss onto his hair. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much, Mischief.”

Stiles exhaled, and it came out more like a sob. “I’ve missed you too, Momma.”

There were footsteps behind him and Stiles relaxed even further into his mother’s hold. The steady clomping of his father’s workboots was a reassuring sound, promising safety and love. 

“What, no hug for me?” His dad asked, and Stiles shook his head, although his face was still pressed to his mother’s neck.

“...Yeah, you get one too.” He reluctantly pulled out of Claudia’s arms and turned, crossing the space between him and his father quickly. His father pulled him into just as strong of a hug as his mother did. 

He felt his father slowly begin to rock them side to side, mimicking the way he used to comfort Stiles when he had nightmares. Stiles smiled into his father’s chest, fingers clutching at the back of John’s shirt like if he let go, he would drift away. 

“Hey, Stiles?”

He stepped away from his father’s hug and spun to face his mother again. She was staring down at her hands with her head cocked to one side, as if she was looking at a particularly interesting insect. 

“What’s this?” She lifted her hands up so that he could see. They were grey, the color slowly moving up her arms. “S-Stiles?” Her voice shook.

“No. No, no please no.” He darted forward and held her hands in his, willing his magic to take action and heal, like it was supposed to. His spark didn’t react, his palms remained empty as his mother’s flesh flaked apart in his grip. “Mom,  _ please. _ ”

He glanced up at her face and choked, stumbling back a few steps. Her mouth was agape, veins on her face now prominent with black blood running through them. He held his hands out but his magic remained dormant, as if telling him that there was nothing  _ anyone  _ could do. As if reminding him that he can’t do anything, ever. That he will never be able to do anything. He could only watch, horrified, as her hair began to fall to the floor, each strand now brittle, and her face started to fall apart. 

“ _ Stiles. _ ” Her voice was a rapsing plea, a mockery of the soft tone that she used to have. “ _ Save me. _ ”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m  _ trying!” _

His mother pleaded again and he sobbed, falling to his knees in front of her as she did the same. She reached out a shaking hand and he seized it, eyes locked on hers as her cheeks began to cave in. He couldn’t look away. 

“S-Stiles…” The flaking of her body had reached her face, which was now little more than skin stretched over a skull. 

“Please. Please,  _ no _ .” Stiles lunged forward, bundling his mother into his arms but she fell apart against him. He sat back on his heels, dust coating his palms and his front. His breath was whistling and out of his lungs, barely moving his chest.

He let out another choking sob and bent towards the floor, folding in on himself as he held his shaking hands out in front of him. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t lose his family, his  _ mother,  _ over and over and  _ over _ -

“...Son?”

_ No. _

Stiles spun around, stomach at his feet. His father was still standing, a slight smile on his face. “What’s wrong?” John asked, eyebrows scrunched together. He didn’t even glance towards where his wife had been seconds ago. “Everyone’s oka-” 

His dad choked, one hand coming up to clutch at his throat. He coughed and blood sprayed, some of the crimson liquid running down his chin. Stile scrambled up and took a stumbling step toward him,  _ begging  _ his spark to flare to life, but just as it had every other time, it did not respond. 

His father crumpled to the ground, head lolling to one side as he stared blankly into the distance. 

“D-Dad!” Stiles drops to the floor beside him, lifting his head up and resting it on his lap. “Oh gods,  _ please. _ ” Tears, their salt sting sharper than knives, cut tracks down his cheeks as he rocks himself back and forth, cupping his father’s face in his hands. 

His father’s lungs had stopped, and the blood coating his chin mixed with the ash from Stiles’ hands. Stiles felt something shatter in the hollow of his chest, where he’d thought everything was so broken that there was nothing left to break.

Stiles drew in a hitching breath, do say what, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t move, slumped on the floor with his shoulders hunched. Really, what could he do anyway? It wasn’t as if he could bring his parents back. 

There was a weight on his limbs, as if he’d been buried under sand or tons of dirt, slowly crawling towards his heart. He shifted slightly and found that he was pinned, unable to do anything but sway side to side. 

Stiles glanced down reflexively and swore, voice still thick with tears. The stone of the floor was moving, sliding up his struggling legs and arms. He looked back to the body of his father but the space in front of him where he had been was empty. 

“W-What?” Panic coursed through him and he bucked in the stone’s hold, but he only began to sink faster. He was panting now, breaths hissing out between his teeth with each uncoordinated surge of movement. 

Jumbled prayers stumbled their way out of his mouth, both his childhood language and the common tongue mixing in his fear. “Lá lav me quilda lórë...oh merciful _Effírië_ …” He drew in another panicked breath as the rest of his body disappeared beneath the stone, only his head still above it. “ _Lá_ , Mortefic,” He gasped out. “Lá!”

Then Stiles was submerged, stone pressing in on all sides, sliding down his throat and up his nose. His chest spasmed and he opened his mouth to gasp, but it only allowed more of his airway to be blocked. 

His head was spinning and he’d given up on trying to breathe. He let himself sink further into the liquid stone, lungs still but shoulders heaving as he subconsciously continued to try to suck in a breath. 

Spots were spinning in his vision and he let his eyes slip closed. 

Maybe it would be better to just...go.

To get this life over with and reach the afterlife Stiles had known he was heading to since he turned twelve years old. He felt himself to start to drift, the stone seemingly fading away. His lungs continued to malfunction, seizing in his chest, yet unable to pull in the air his body so desperately needed. 

_ Stiles. _

Yes, he thought idly. That was his name. 

_ Stiles! _

He was trembling, shaking, sudden pressure appearing on his shoulders as if the gods had suddenly decided he wasn’t done yet and were trying to push him back. He let his head loll to the side on the suddenly hard surface he was splayed out on. 

_ Stiles! Breathe! You have to breathe! _

Breathe? The thought of inhaling, of pushing air through his lungs and into his bloodstream, sounded like such a monumentous task. He wasn’t sure if the little strength he had left inside of him would be enough.

Then there was a fist slamming into his gut and he curled in on himself, all the stale air that had been in his lungs punched out. He gasped, desperately inhaling and coughing out exhales as his body tried to recover from having the wind knocked out of him. 

He could’ve spent minutes or hours remembering how to breathe again and he wouldn’t have known the difference. 

Stiles came back to himself in pieces. First was the grounding feeling of his bed underneath him, cushioning his shuddering lungs. Next was his hands, the numbness that has been weighing down his limbs dissipating. He curled his fingers into the sheets, relishing in the silky softness that brushed his fingertips. 

After that, was Stiles’ hearing. The blinding roaring that had filled his ears was gone, replaced by his heaving breaths and the pants of people around him. His thoughts were too disconnected to figure out who they were. 

Then his sense of taste reappeared. At some point while in his nightmare, Stiles must’ve bitten his tongue. His mouth tasted like blood. 

His sight came last. The spiraling shapes and swirling spots that had obscured his vision dissipated, with a view of Stiles’ bedroom ceiling replacing them. 

There was a hand wrapped around his wrist, the pressure that had been on his shoulders having disappeared. Stiles rolled his head to the side slowly, and followed the hand up an arm to reach the dark haired beta’s face. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can you hear me?”

Stiles nodded, feeling as if he was trying to move while deep underwater. He opened his mouth to respond but his tongue felt too heavy to form words. He closed his mouth, whatever he was going to say dying behind his teeth. 

The beta smiled weakly in response, the upturn of his lips barely there. He turned his head towards the door and Stiles copied his movement, shooting a glance over the wolf’s shoulder. He had to blink a few times, thinking that maybe he was still stuck in whatever nightmarish dream he’d been trapped in.

The rest of the pack was crowding the doorway, anxiously clustered together as they watched the pair on the bed. Alpha Hale was at the front of the group, and for once he wasn’t scowling. If Stiles had the air to waste to choke out a laugh, he would at the look on his face. 

It was an expression of utmost concern. A chuckle bubbled up in his throat and it escaped in a whisper, the sound more air than anything else. Scott’s head snapped back to the Spark and another laugh followed the first, this one louder. 

Before he knew it, he was sprawled out on the bed, shaking with the force of his slightly hysteric giggles, the pack staring wide eyed at him as he trembled. 

The  _ thought  _ that a werewolf could be worried for someone who had slaughtered hundreds of his species was ridiculous. 

But the knowledge that the emotion overtaking Alpha Hale’s face was real? That was even worse.

Because that meant that Kate had  _ even more  _ to use against him, even if she didn’t know it yet. She’d find out eventually, she always did. Stiles just had to hope that he was either long gone or long dead before that inevitable time. 

The laughter turned into something else, the sound getting caught in his throat and coming out twisted. His breathing hitched and then he was crying, eyes squeezed shut as he rolled onto his side, curling in on himself as if the position could lessen the constant pain in his chest.

A light touch settled on his shoulder, and when he didn’t move to shrug it off, when the shudder that ran through him wasn’t followed by a plea to be left alone, the touch became heavier. The beta slid his hand over Stiles’ back and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to the wolf’s chest.

Stiles couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of the other man’s body, tucking his face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. The wolf stiffened against him for a moment before relaxing, resting his chin on Stiles’ head in response. They stayed like that for an indeterminable amount of time, breathing in time with each other as Stiles fought to get his emotions under control. 

Finally, Stiles shifted and the arms around him loosened, allowing him to slide out of the embrace. He couldn’t help but remain leaning against the wolf even after he pulled away, shoulder pressed against the wolf’s. 

He glanced towards the door and found that the pack hadn’t moved an inch, not even when he basically molested their packmate. “I-uh.” Stiles winced at the feeling of his voice grating its way out of his mouth. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” He looked at the beta beside him and scooted away until Stiles could no longer feel the heat of his body. If Stiles’ body ached at the loss of touch, that was no one’s business. “I-I don’t even know your name,” he said. “And I just scent marked you.”

The beta darted a look to his alpha before looking back at the Spark. “Scott.”

“...what?”

Scott smiled. “I’m Scott and it’s okay that you scent marked me. I did it in return.”

Stiles raised a shaky eyebrow. “Y-Yeah but I did it first. You responded on instinct. And I know that scent marking is for pack, not…” He hesitated, then continued, venom now coating his words. “Not for someone like  _ me. _ ”

There was a shuffle of movement at the doorway and Stiles’ gaze snapped towards it. The curly haired beta had muscled his way to the front. “I’m Isaac.”

Stiles’ eyes widened and he looked to the alpha, hoping to figure out just how  _ widespread  _ the newfound acceptance of him had spread. Alpha Hale nodded in response to Stiles’ silent question. “Derek.” He turned towards the remaining betas, the blonde woman shifting slightly in front of the male, stance protective even in the face of her alpha’s calm.

There was a beat of silence and then-

“My name’s Boyd.” The man gestured to the female in front of him. “This is Erica.”

Stiles nodded at them both, eyeing the way they seemed tilted towards each other, even while standing straight backed and facing forward. “You’re mates.” The entire pack seemed to flinch at his observation and Stiles remembered. With their sudden decision to speak to him, to help him, he’d forgotten who he still was to them. “I-Sorry. I won’t say anything.” He leaned forward, suddenly desperate to prove himself trustworthy. “I won’t say anything, not to a guard, not to Kate. You have my word.”

The room remained frozen, even after Stiles’ vow of silence. Stiles glanced from face to face, their expressions ranging from trust and belief in his oath to a glare that promises bloody vengeance should he let a single word slip. 

“Your bond is safe with me.” Slowly, keeping his gaze on the wolves in front of him, he tipped his head to the side. 

For an apex predator, and that was what Stiles was, to bare its neck to another was the ultimate show of trust. It was a way to say without words that Stiles trusted them to rest their teeth against the veins that pumped life-blood through his body, and do nothing but rest them there. 

A rumble of acknowledgement filled the room, Alpha Hale’s mouth curved into a slight smile as the growl rolled out from between his lips. The rest of the pack joined, the sound somehow comforting in its volume. 

Stiles relaxed against Scott and let himself be tugged back into a hug, his back to the beta’s chest. “Thank you,” He whispered, nestling further into Scott’s arms. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He has friends now!! Yay!!
> 
> Also I’m very sorry about what’s gonna happen in the sixth/seventh chapter (haven’t decided yet)


	6. Author Note

Hello!

This is for any new readers and those who’ve bookmarked this fic.   
  


I know I haven’t updated this work for a couple months and that I typically update once a month.   
  


Some family stuff has gone down and that plus COVID is filling up my schedule and my head with anxiety.   
  


I haven’t abandoned this fic, I already have part of the next chapter written, it just might take me a bit to get to finishing it. 

I will be posting other fics but they are prewritten and have been sitting in my computer for a while.   
  


I hope everyone has a happy holidays and stays safe!!   
  


-gunpowder_and_pearls


	7. Spark in Wolf’s Clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the short chapter, I’ve been trying to get myself into writing again 
> 
> I am also sorry for the wait 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!!

Somehow, in the moments in between the aftermath of Stiles’ nightmare and the pack’s subtle attempt at corralling him to the sitting room in his chambers, Derek had scent marked him. After the Alpha’s clear sign of acceptance, Stiles found the rest of the pack taking turns brushing their wrists over his neck and jaw. They did it seemingly unconsciously, with almost no hesitation in the action.

When he finally got to his couch, he found himself tucked up against Derek, one of the wolf’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. The wolf was sitting stiffly, likely nervous at his proximity with Stiles, but Stiles considered their closeness a huge step up from where they had been before. 

Plus, Derek was much more comfortable than expected.

Stiles glanced around the room, the wolves taking up spots on the nearby floor and pair of armchairs, and nestled closer to Derek. Since the nightmare and his brain’s subsequent decision to shut down his airways, he hadn’t been able to get warm. 

Even with wool socks covering his feet and his body pressed up against Derek’s, he was still shivering.

Silence fell, the only noise other than Stiles’ rasping breaths being the slight shuffle of movement from one of the wolves. Stiles glanced around the room, feeling the tension in his body grow with each second that passed. 

“So,” Stiles said, pretending to miss the wince that came from Scott at the sound of his croaky voice. Obviously, the whole  _ not-breathing  _ thing hadn’t done him much good. “I guess you’d like to know what that was about.” 

Derek opened his mouth, hesitating as he looked over his pack and Stiles. “You don’t have to tell us anything,” He said, finally. Stiles could tell he wanted to say more, that whatever was on the tip of his tongue was likely not nearly as considerate as he’d been acting for the past few minutes. 

Stiles huffed. He wasn’t a  _ child.  _ He understood that he’d done terrible things and that no one knew why he had done them. He also knew that Derek likely had a massive guilt complex, that he likely felt it was his fault his family had died, that he should’ve done something to stop Stiles. The truth was that if Derek had attacked him, Stiles would’ve been forced to kill him. 

Stiles understood because that was exactly how he felt every time he thought of his mother. 

“I am a killer,” Stiles said. There was a collective flinch throughout the room. “That can’t be changed and it will not change. I can’t erase my past.” He glanced around at the pack, eyes darting from their lowered eyes to their stiff postures. “What I can do is explain it.”

Derek made a  _ go-on  _ gesture, rolling his hand forward as if he could push Stiles’ next words out his throat. 

“When I was little, I didn’t know what being a Spark was.  _ Hel _ ,” He said, leaning back against the couch and subsequently shuffling away from Derek, “I didn’t even know  _ I  _ was a Spark. I thought I was just some weird kind of mage.” 

Scott shifted from where he was seated next to Isaac, a deep frown bringing furrows inbetween his brows. “What changed?”

“I- uh.” He glanced down at his hands. They were shaking a little. “Kate decided to pay a little visit to my village. My house.”

The wolves stiffened, a wave of realization and anticipation rolling across the room, the change noticeable in the tightening of Boyd’s fists in his lap and Erica’s brief flash of teeth, as if she couldn’t contain herself. 

“I was pretty young, just over eleven.” Stiles fidgeted, running a hand through his hair almost unconsiously as he struggled to get his racing thoughts and heartbeat under control. He hadn’t talked about this to anyone, not even Lydia. He was sure the banshee had an inkling of just how naive he’d been when he’d first been taken, but she’d never said anything outright. “Kate, she doesn’t have a lot of power. W-What she does have is enchanted things, either gifts or prices that were paid.”

“And...these things, where does she keep them?” Derek had a look in his eyes, one mimicked in his posture, in the tenseness of his shoulders. It spoke of revenge, of planning, and Stiles had to squash those feelings before anything came of them. To watch this pack die, perhaps even the same way his mother did, would be a nightmare come to life. 

“She wears them as jewelry. And what they can do-” Stile shuddered involuntarily, words cut off by the tremble that overtakes him for a moment. He shook his head. “Oh gods, the things she can do with them.”

The wolves were silent, watching him. Scott scooted closer, a sympathetic expression on his face. 

“She used this bracelet to summon magic to her palm. But it was weird and  _ sickly _ . I could sense it, even then. Whatever the core of that magic had been, it wasn’t that anymore.” His mind flashed back to that first glimpse of her magic. He fought back another shiver. “Kate had twisted it somehow. It felt so  _ wrong _ , as if it shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Like a tear into the afterlife. A-And then it attached itself to my mother.”

There was an almost silent intake of breath. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was him or one of the weres. 

“She lost years within seconds. One of the most powerful magic users to walk this world and she couldn’t even move.” He glanced back down at his lap, fingers twisting around each other in an almost indescirnable pattern. The repetitive movements helped him relax, the tension in his shoulders and jaw lessening as he inhaled shakily. “And then Kate took me. Drugged me and dragged me into a carriage.”

Erica shifted from where she was pressed against Boyd. “But if you’re so powerful,” she said, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “How come you couldn’t just fight off her magic if she attacked you?”

Stiles could hear her unspoken question, could read between the lines.  _ Why didn’t you just kill her and escape?  _

“I woke up with these bracelets around my wrists,” Stiles responded, lifting his arms for emphasis, “And these necklaces around my neck. The beads, they each have an enchantment on them. They contain me, force me to not attack Kate. They stop me from accessing all of my Spark, which could blow these restraints off of me.” He glanced around the room. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell them just how powerful he was, didn’t want to make him more of a monster in their eyes, but he needed them to trust him. He needed someone to trust, and if telling them the truth about him was the way to do it, then that was what he was going to do. 

“The magic you’ve heard of me wielding? That power is nothing but a singular drop of the magic inside me. It’s  _ nothing  _ compared to what I can do.”

A sudden stillness descended on all of them and Stiles went back to studying his hands, tapping each finger on his thumb before moving to the next one, almost rythmically. He got through three rounds of the tapping before a voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“So...if those restraints were off of you, what  _ could  _ you do?”

Stiles’ gaze shot to Isaac, the almost-surprise on his face a knee-jerk reaction to the were speaking to him. “Uh. I...if I used up all of my power?” The curly haired wolf nodded and Stiles grimanced, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the ends in an effort to center himself. “I could turn this castle into a pile of dust.”

Derek stiffened even more, although Stiles wasn’t sure how he managed to. He was sitting like his spine had turned into a rod of steel. The rest of the wolves seemed to follow their Alpha’s example, not leaning away from Stiles, but everything in their posture seemed to scream that moving back was the only thing they wanted to do. 

“That must feel horrible.”

The Spark jolted when Boyd spoke, the were’s voice low and smooth. “W-What?”

“Your magic is linked to you?” At Stiles’ agreement, Boyd continued. “Having all of that so contained must hurt.”

Stiles thought back to the bloody noses, the migraines and the weight on his chest that never seemed to go away. “Yes,” he said. “It does.”

Derek scooted back towards Stiles until their shoulders were brushing. The spellcaster almost melted at the warmth of the were, and he found himself slumping back against the couch. His eyes slipped closed for a moment and when he managed to force them open a moment later, he found the rest of the pack clustered around him. Isaac had taken the cushion next to Stiles and Scott was leaning against the curly haired were’s legs. Boyd was in an armchair, Erica wrapped in his arms as he watched Stiles from beneath half lidded eyes. 

Stiles blinked slowly, suddenly feeling as if the blood in his veins had been replaced by molasses. Boyd kept watching him, but he gave Stiles a slow nod. The Spark let his eyes slide closed again, settling deeper into the warmth that is Derek. 

Sleep overtook him and Stiles allowed himself to drift. He didn’t have a single nightmare. 

**Author's Note:**

> Figuring out the mythology 
> 
> Anyone want a list of the main gods?
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos (they’re instant serotonin)


End file.
